


At the Heart of it All

by SilentAuror



Series: The Heart Experiment [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, First Time, M/M, New Relationship, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Post-Divorce, Romance, So much kissing, Virgin!Sherlock, You Have Been Warned, post-Mary, post-series 3, questions of sexuality, unabashed romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been back at Baker Street for four months now and thinks it's about time they had the Talk to see whether or not they could be more than friends. Sherlock has a lot of uncertainty about this concept for multiple reasons. Unabashed romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Heart of it All

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of a Russian translation by Little_Unicorn is now posted here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/4677280

**At the Heart of it All**

 

John jogs up the stairs, the bags of groceries in his hands feeling somehow lighter than they sometimes do. 

The door to the flat is open, as usual. Sherlock is probably awake by now, but just in case he isn’t, John doesn’t call out to him. If he _is_ awake, he’ll have deduced the fact that John is back by the time his key slid into the keyhole downstairs. He’s not in the sitting room. John deposits the bags on the kitchen table and listens, and from the direction of the bathroom he can hear water splashing a bit. Sherlock more often showers in the morning, unless it’s a day where he’s got nothing on; ergo today must be one of the latter. John goes into the corridor and stops at the bathroom door. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” 

“I’ve just been round to the shops. I couldn’t find tilapia, but the salmon was on sale,” he says, then wonders why he didn’t just wait until later to share this vital piece of information. Sometimes he wonders about himself. No, he realises – it’s just that he wanted to say hello, establish the first contact of the day, and therefore invented an ‘official’ reason to do so. (Nice if they could have established an entirely different sort of first contact of the day, but now is not the moment for that.) 

“Oh?” Sherlock actually sounds interested. (He must be hungry, then, John reasons.) “Are we going to have it tonight?”

“Could do,” John replies, pleased by his interest. “I could make it that way you like, with the soy sauce, sugar glaze, and fresh lemon?”

“Mmm.” This time it’s a sound of decided interest. 

“You hungry?” John hedges. “I didn’t eat before I went – I meant to, but I forgot. Should we make brunch?”

“We could go out,” Sherlock counter-proposes. There’s another swoosh of water and the sound of a bottle cap opening. 

“I just bought groceries,” John points out. 

“Did you get bacon?”

“I did.” John waits. 

More splashing. “All right, then. I’ll do the eggs, you make bacon. And toast.”

“Deal,” John says, smiling to himself. “Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.” 

“I’ll put it on. You coming out soon, then?”

“Soon,” Sherlock agrees vaguely. 

John leaves him there and goes back into the kitchen, still smiling. He makes the coffee first, so that it will be ready to drink before they start making brunch, and then puts the groceries away. He leaves the wild blueberry honey he found on the table for Sherlock to discover and pounce on in glee. He’s rather counting on seeing this, in fact. Sherlock is both difficult yet also surprisingly easy to please, once one takes the time to figure out what sorts of things please him. He’s unusual and endearing and complicated and John loves him for it. 

Speaking of which… he moves the honey to the centre of the table and wonders if today is the day to broach the Talk. It’s been four months now, four months since he moved back in. The divorce was finalised last week, or officially speaking, the annulment. Because Mary married him under an alias, the marriage could be voided, rather than having to wait the requisite full year before a divorce could be obtained. She’s back in America where she belongs, the lie of a baby dissolved into thin air, and that entire bizarre, confusing, dark period of his life seems like a dream now. Those two terrible years without Sherlock, then the overlapping period with Mary, a mixture of happy times and pained, inner confusion. He hadn’t known why he was still so angry sometimes, so torn in ways that he was at a loss to identify even to himself. He should have been so happy: the woman he’d proposed to (sort of, mostly) had agreed to marry him, and Sherlock was back from the so-called dead. But he hadn’t been half as well-contented as he should have been. There were too many nights spent staring at the ceiling for a man who seemingly had everything he could have wanted. And the dreams about Sherlock wouldn’t stop, the strangely sexual dreams that left him harder and more wanting than anything he’d ever experienced in his waking life. He’d dealt with those the best he could, either channelling it into Mary or sneaking off to the loo to deal with it himself, but in his half-asleep state, still feeling Sherlock’s hands on him, Sherlock’s mouth, his voice dark and low in John’s ears. 

It wasn’t rocket science. He’d known from day one that he’d always been attracted to Sherlock. _Very_ attracted. But he’d never gone that way, never sought out another bloke before. Sexuality is a sliding scale for some, he’s always known, but he’d never bothered exploring the other side. And he hadn’t thought he could feel romantic attraction for a man. He liked women. Still likes them, in principle, at least. But he loves Sherlock and has for a very long time. And now, with the Mary mess and his disastrous marriage behind him, John can finally pursue this. 

Only he isn’t at all sure that Sherlock wants to pursue it. He’s meant to have the Talk, the “now that we’re back together again and do everything together, including sharing a career and a house and pretty much everything else, what would you think about us becoming lovers about now?” sort of talk. He’s tried to begin half a dozen times. Things between them are fantastic. The day John had moved back in, Sherlock had welcomed him with open arms, quite literally. They’d hugged for an unusually long time – Sherlock has never been much of a hugger – and it had been rather nice, but then Sherlock had released him and gone to help the movers bring in his things. John quit the clinic because he’d wanted Sherlock to know that he was decidedly John’s first priority, at last, even just as friends, and the only work he does now is casework with Sherlock, much the way he had in the whole of the eight months before Sherlock had jumped from the roof of St Bart’s. They rarely fight, apart from the occasional spat of bickering; Sherlock was so pleased that John had come back that he’d made a concerted effort to accommodate him, keep him happy. All of the biohazardous materials are kept secured and labelled, disposed of the instant they’re past due. The flat is generally cleaner – Sherlock even permits Mrs Hudson to dust most of the time – and everything has settled into an extremely comfortable, tremendously pleasant domesticity. John is very happy, and he believes that Sherlock is, too. He therefore hesitates to rock the boat, do anything at all that could spoil it. 

But he loves Sherlock deeply, and the only thing he wants more than to not disturb the pleasant, altogether satisfying friendship they currently have, is to be Sherlock’s lover. To be able to not only cook with him, but kiss him as he passes the pepper. To be able to go into the bathroom – into the bath itself, even, to say hello. To have woken up with him in the first place. The yearning for all of this is fierce. John is completely certain that there is no chance that he will ever want to move out again, seek out this sort of thing with someone else. If it can’t happen with Sherlock, he won’t leave him. He will simply learn to be content with whatever Sherlock can and is willing to give him. 

But how to bring it up remains the principal question. 

John is stirred from his thoughts by Sherlock padding barefoot into the kitchen, dressed in a white button-down shirt and black trousers that sit perfectly on his waist and do incredible things to his arse. He proffers a smile at John and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee, then thoughtfully pours a second and brings it to the stove where John is just laying out strips of bacon in a pan. John thanks him and wishes again that he could express his thanks slightly more physically than the pat on the shoulder he gives as Sherlock sets up another pan beside his before beginning to slice vegetables for an omelette. Soon the smells of frying bacon, mushrooms, and garlic fill the kitchen, along with the rich dark roast still simmering in the carafe and John feels a burst of contentedness again. Everything is just so perfect, he thinks, as Sherlock spills a bowl of beaten egg into his pan and begins grating cheddar with the same serious focus he dedicates to the microscope or a crime scene. John really, _really_ doesn’t want to risk ruining it. But the pay-off if it were to work… 

He deposits four slices of multigrain bread from the bakery down the street in the toaster and takes the bacon off the hob as Sherlock adds spring onions and fresh tomato, then flips the omelette perfectly. John lays the table and refills both their mugs and Sherlock comes over to serve them both directly from the pan. The toast pops up and John goes to collect it and thinks that this is really the best of times. Is it greedy to want to ask for anything more on top of it?

They sit down and Sherlock spies the blueberry honey and makes gratifyingly pleased sounds about it. “Where did you find it?” he wants to know, and John tells him about the temporary farmer’s market set up on the corner by the Tesco. Sherlock studies the label in detail and John wonders if he will need reading glasses when he’s older and hopes he’s there to see it, see the curling hair go grey at the temples, stiffer under his fingers than it would be now, if only he were permitted to touch it… John gives himself a small shake and refocuses on breakfast. The blueberry honey is delicious, they agree, and Sherlock’s omelette is perfect.

They eat and talk about nothing in particular, and when it’s finally finished, Sherlock gets up to plug in the kettle and John takes their dishes to the sink. Before Sherlock can reach for the papers, John asks, trying for a casual tone, “So, what’s up for you today?”

Sherlock gives him a slight smile. “As you’ve correctly deduced, nothing in particular.”

“How did you work out I’d deduced that?” John wants to know. 

Sherlock shrugs. “General tempo of the morning so far. Besides, you know my ways by now.”

It seems as good a segue as any. John leans forward a bit and clears his throat. “Er, Sherlock,” he starts, already feeling ridiculous, “I wondered if we could, uh, have a bit of a talk?”

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. “A talk?” he repeats, his tone light but something guarded comes into his eyes. 

John ducks his head for a second and asks himself if he’s sure he wants to go ahead with this. He’s not at all convinced that it’s a good idea. He looks across at Sherlock and clears his throat again. “Er, yeah,” he says. “Listen… I don’t really know how to begin. I just want to say at the outset – ”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts, an inscrutable look on his face, “are you sure that this talk is… necessary?”

Well, if that doesn’t make him more determined, nothing will. John lifts his chin. “I think it is, yeah,” he says, trying not to sound too defensive. “I just wanted to say first that – that if we decide that – uh, that everything is going to stay exactly the same, then it can. It absolutely can.” That made no sense and Sherlock is staring at him as though he’s just grown antennae. Perhaps he should just launch in, then. John takes a deep breath. “What I’m trying to bring up is – well, it’s been four months since I’ve been back home now, and I just wondered if – well, the possibility might be there for us to…” John trails off and risks a look at Sherlock. Sherlock is waiting, lips set a bit too firmly, his fingers interlocked on the table between them. 

“To what?” he asks, looking still more wary. 

A voice in John’s head is telling him to backpedal now and get out of it while he still can. Of course, Sherlock has probably guessed by now, anyway, and not saying it would be, possibly, the only thing more awkward than just saying it. The kettle switches itself off, ignored as it boiled and neither of them are paying it any attention. “Er, I wondered about – um – us,” he says. “Our, er, status.” Sherlock looks positively alarmed, but John goes doggedly on. “I wondered if there was any chance that you had ever considered that we could be… well… more than friends.” There. It’s out. John tries not to cringe as he looks back up at Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock is very still, his eyes focused on the table rather than at John. If anything, he looks uncertain. Guarded. He doesn’t say anything. 

The silence lengthens between them. “There’s no pressure,” John adds quickly, aiming for damage control. “I just – I thought maybe we could talk about it. That’s all. If you’re not at all interested in that, fine – I just – ”

“But you are?” Sherlock asks, glancing at John and looking away again before they can actually make eye contact. “Interested?”

Another deep breath. “I am, yeah,” John says. Cards on the table it is. “I, er, have been for awhile, actually. A long while.” He tries not to hold his breath. 

Sherlock’s thumbs move (nervously?), rubbing against his own knuckles. “I thought you ‘weren’t gay’,” he says to the table. 

“I don’t know that I am.” John is carefully measured. “I may just have a, er, rather singular exception. For you.”

Now Sherlock’s eyes cut to his quickly. “Only me?”

John nods. “Pretty much, yeah. I suppose I’ve – I don’t know, noticed other blokes, but I’ve never – I mean, I’ve never wanted – look, you’d be the first, all right? I haven’t ever – pursued anything with another man. Not ever.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still on him, calculating, his thoughts hidden behind those keen, light blue eyes. Eventually he says, “What is this really, John? Are you – lonely?” He fumbles, searching for the correct term. “In need of – of physical… stimulus?” 

His cheeks are slightly flushed, John sees. He’s embarrassed, or feels as awkward talking about this as John does. But this has to be clarified. “No,” he says firmly. “It’s not at all that I’m just wanting to get laid. If it were only that, obviously I’d find someone or something. It’s _you_ , idiot.”

Sherlock swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long neck. John wants to put his mouth on that neck, press his tongue to the pulse point. After another loaded pause, Sherlock posits another theory. “You want a relationship of that nature but you’re either unwilling to subject yourself to hurt again and therefore seeking it out with a person with whom you feel you can trust, or – possibly – you’re unwilling to leave me again. You’re attempting to bridge your need with your desire to stay by changing the nature of our friendship.” 

John begins to lose patience. “No,” he says. “What part of ‘it’s you’ was unclear? I’m not just looking for an outlet or something, and I’m certainly not looking to get involved with anyone other than you. It’s not that I’m unwilling to leave you for those reasons – it’s that there’s no one else I want to be with, and it’s not just because you’re my best friend, all right? I – care about you, a lot.” This is too weak. John lowers his voice a little and clears his throat. “That is to say,” he says, getting the words out slowly, “I… love you. Have done for some time now.” 

Sherlock looks pole-axed. The way he did the day John asked him to be his best man. For a long time, he just blinks. Then, just when John is about to prompt him, he opens his mouth, considers, then closes it again. Then takes a sudden breath and says, “John… I think you may be… over-romanticising this notion somewhat. I don’t suppose I would be anything like what you may want, when it comes to… that.”

John frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

The hands tighten and twist together. “I mean,” Sherlock says slowly, “that I have… extremely limited experience when it comes to – any aspect of – that. Both the emotional and the, er, physical.”

John is a bit surprised. “But you were just dating Janine last summer – I mean, I know it was fake, but it was real enough for her to have got into the bath with you.” A sudden realisation occurs to him. “Or is it that you’re not into blokes? Oh, God.” Heat suffuses his face. He’d just assumed, but then, there’s more evidence for Sherlock being into women than men if he’s into anything, isn’t there? Well, there was Irene Adler, and then Janine… so, all right, not _much_ evidence, but Sherlock has always been more into his work than anything else, right? But what if he’s not at all interested in men that way? 

Sherlock’s brows come together. “It’s not that,” he says. “I believe I told you early in our acquaintance that women were not my area. I don’t see how I could be clearer about that, unless ‘not my area’ means something else to you than it does to everyone else.”

His sharpness is a defensive reaction, John knows. “Okay,” he says, backing off a little. “So – _are_ you into blokes, then?”

Sherlock’s lips press together self-consciously. “I’m… not entirely certain if I’m… into anything, actually,” he says. “Or that it would – work – even if I were.” His shoulders hunch a little, closing in on himself. He looks up under his lashes at John. “I imagine that would change your mind about… wanting to try that sort of thing with me.”

John blinks, trying to process this. “Not necessarily,” he says carefully. “What makes you say that? Have you – I don’t know, never been attracted to anyone?”

“No, I have,” Sherlock says. He looks tremendously awkward. “Not often, but… I have been attracted to someone, yes.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “A male someone.”

“Okay,” John says, feeling a touch relieved. “Then what makes you think you’re not into that sort of thing at all?”

Sherlock actually colours. His mouth works a little, then he says, with reluctance, “With Janine… she sometimes tried to… initiate – things, and… I… wasn’t able to… respond.” 

_Oh_. John feels his eyes widen as he realises. “Did she touch you?” he asks bluntly. 

Sherlock nods, looking miserable. “I did tell her that it was a side-effect of my ‘addiction’,” he says. “I think she believed it. The truth was that I was never high, save the morning that I intended you to find me along with Isaac Whitney.”

John leans forward a bit, bracing his weight on his forearms. “Did she only try it with her hands?” he asks, almost conspiratorially. 

Sherlock looks slightly confused. “Yes,” he says, but doesn’t clarify. “I allowed her to sleep over but only ever shared the bed with her twice; otherwise I was working. She did get into the bath with me that once, and also the shower another time. I found myself fully unresponsive every time.”

John tries to sort this out in his head, figure out what the most important thing to say first is. “Okay, look,” he says. “That could just be that you’re not into women at all. If so, fine. Have you – er, have you ever been, I don’t know, emotionally intimate – with anyone? Male or female?”

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes on the surface of the table again. 

Part of John wants to take pity on Sherlock and drop the entire topic, but now that it’s out, it’s out and has to be seen through. “Look,” he says again, gently. “I don’t care if all that doesn’t – doesn’t work the way it does for other people. I mean that. I want you however you are, but only if you actually want that, with me. I mean, do you see us that way at all? Do you – ” John hesitates, then makes himself finish the question. “Do you – feel the same way about me, at all?”

Sherlock’s frown deepens, but he nods. “I think so,” he says, less certainly than John would prefer. “I don’t have anything with which to compare it.”

“Can you describe it?” John asks, not wanting to push, but needing so badly to know. “Tell me what it’s like – what you feel for me.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shrug in what could be irritation. “John, I really don’t – ”

“Please,” John interrupts. “It’s important to me. Really important. Just try.”

Sherlock risks another look at him, and then he nods, almost to himself. “Fine,” he mumbles. He inhales, then says, “You’re – important. The most important person in my life. I… would do anything to keep you from leaving again. When you’re not present, I can’t think, I can’t see as clearly as I do when you’re with me. I spend ridiculous amounts of time thinking about you. I feel terribly possessive of you. I don’t want you to get married again.”

He stops, and John takes a deep breath, actually a bit shaken by all of this. “Okay,” he says unsteadily, with a bit of a laugh. “Yeah, I think that’ll do for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes meet his. “Are you sure?” he asks, sounding anything but certain himself. 

“Very sure,” John reassures him. “Well – why don’t we just take it slowly and see how it goes, then? Can we do that?” 

Sherlock bites his lip. 

“I promise you,” John adds, as gently as he can, “no matter what happens, I’ll still feel the way I feel. Still want to be with you. I’m not leaving and that’s a promise. I’d just like to see – what else we could be, on top of this.”

Sherlock nods then. “Okay,” he says. His eyes flick up to John’s. “How do we start?” he asks. 

John smiles into his eyes. He reaches out and puts his hands around Sherlock’s clenched-together fingers. “How about this?” he asks, and coaxes Sherlock’s hands apart until he’s holding them both in his own across the table. John moves his thumbs lightly over Sherlock’s knuckles, still smiling at him, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him; rather, his gaze is focused on the movement of John’s thumbs and at their joined hands. “This all right?” John asks lightly, looking for some sort of response. 

Sherlock nods again. “It’s – very pleasant,” he says, then grimaces as though having disliked his choice of words. After a bit, he turns his hands palm-upward and caresses John’s with his thumbs. Even that tiny gesture means so much coming from Sherlock, who is normally so unresponsive physically, that John feels a flutter deep in his gut similar to butterflies. “I meant everything I said,” Sherlock says stiffly, still looking at their hands. “All of that, about you. There’s no one else who’s ever mattered to me the way you matter. I mean that.”

John feels his throat tighten a little. “I know you do,” he says. He slides his fingers into Sherlock’s now and Sherlock finally looks up at him. He wants to go slowly for Sherlock’s sake, but this particular yearning is rising sharply. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, almost holding his breath. 

Sherlock’s lips compress again, but he nods. 

John lets go of his hands and moves himself to the chair at the end of the table to be closer. He reaches out and touches Sherlock’s face with his right hand, thumb stroking over that sharp (beautiful) cheekbone, then leans forward and touches his lips to Sherlock’s, lightly, but lingering for a few seconds. And knows immediately that he never wants to kiss another set of lips again for as long as he lives. His heart beating wildly all of a sudden, he pulls back a bit to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his lips parted slightly, the colour high in his cheeks, and without checking John feels certain that his pulse is elevated – yes, it’s there in the vein pulsing at his neck. “Again?” he asks, needing confirmation. 

Sherlock nods. “Please,” he says, and John wastes no time in complying. He presses in a little more firmly this time and is rewarded by the feeling of Sherlock’s lips tightening under his, warm and soft and pliant. 

After a little, he draws away again, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock. He takes stock of the flush across his cheekbones, the fact that Sherlock’s breathing a little faster than usual, and decides to check verbally. “Okay so far?” He moves the hand that was on Sherlock’s cheek to his forearm on the table. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. His arm turns, his fingers closing around John’s. “Yes,” he says. “Very okay.”

“Better than Janine?” John asks lightly, meaning it as a bit of a joke.

Sherlock nods. “Do it again,” he says, and the last word is nearly cut off as John swiftly does so. Sherlock is still holding his right arm, so he puts his left hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and opens his mouth to lip at Sherlock’s, keeping his tongue well back from the action at this point, wanting to draw him into this slowly. Sherlock catches on and does the same thing, fumblingly imitating what John is doing. Their breath mingles and then Sherlock figures out breathing through his nose and resumes kissing back with marked interest. 

John decides to give him a break again after a few wonderful moments of this. His body is thrumming with awareness of how fantastic this is, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up too high, just in case. He breaks off the kiss and starts to ask, “So, what do you th – ”

“Don’t _stop_ ,” Sherlock says, sounding both breathless and annoyed, so John dives back in before he can even grin, and they’re both kissing harder now, jaws opening further, and John decides to try introducing his tongue to Sherlock’s mouth in general. The instant his tongue touches Sherlock’s, he feels it directly in his cock, and Sherlock’s reaction is equally visceral, inhaling sharply through his nose, and suddenly they’re not close enough. Sherlock is dragging John and his chair both closer as they kiss, so that their legs are side-by-side and Sherlock’s arms have got themselves around him at some point, and John’s are tight around his shoulders. Their tongues are pressing together and John is hard in his pants just like that, feeling his erection pressing into the zip of his jeans.

Sherlock is exhaling hard through his nose, kissing with what John would like to term passion, holding him very tightly. John realises he is holding Sherlock just as tightly. They break apart, breathing hard. “John,” Sherlock says, his eyes flushed dark, “I – feel – ”

John’s chest clenches. “What do you feel?” he asks – murmurs, really, his fingers carding through Sherlock’s still-damp curls. 

Sherlock’s lips are wet and slightly swollen and he looks down between them in indication, looking back up at John in something like wonder. “I haven’t responded physically like this with anyone before,” he says, sounding slightly awed. 

John leans in, unable to stop, and kisses him on the chin, then lower, his throat and neck. “How many people have you kissed before?” he asks, lips touching the smooth, pale skin there at last. 

“Four,” Sherlock says instantly, his fingers crawling into John’s hair and catching it between his fingers, tugging a little and it feels amazing. John attempts to hold onto his train of thought. 

“Were they all for cases?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve never kissed anyone you felt anything for, then,” John says, lipping at Sherlock’s earlobe and relishing the way it makes him shiver, and Sherlock bends over and kisses the back of John’s neck. 

“No,” he says, his breath hot on John’s skin. They find their way back to each other’s mouths and kiss again, with much greater abandon. There is no hesitancy on Sherlock’s part; he’s a quick learner, John thinks. And there’s no reluctance, which is a massive relief. Their kissing is making wet sounds, echoing between John’s hands on Sherlock’s face as Sherlock attempts to crush his shoulders in the grip of his embrace. Suddenly he stiffens and pulls away, and John hears it, too – Mrs Hudson’s step on the back stairs. 

He skitters away from Sherlock just in time, grabbing for one of the newspapers just as she enters the kitchen. 

“Oh, hello dears!” she says brightly. “Didn’t think you’d still be around the table, this late in the day! Or is it nearly lunch time?”

“No – we’re just – having a day at home,” John manages, opening the paper. 

She smiles at him, fond. “Always nice to have a day around the house,” she remarks. “Sherlock, I was just wondering, you suggested I try vinegar on the black mould down in 221C, but should I dilute it? I meant to ask before, but you were busy.”

Sherlock clears his throat and nonchalantly picks up one of the other papers, unfolding it in front of his face. “You can dilute it if you like, but it isn’t necessary. I also suggested a tea tree oil solution, or boric acid. Chlorine bleach would also be quite effective, but you were concerned about the toxicity in the closeness of the space.”

John is amazed that Sherlock can speak so calmly moments after having had his tongue nearly down John’s throat, but then, it _is_ Sherlock. He wonders if Mrs Hudson will notice his flushed cheeks. 

“Oh, that’s right, you did tell me about the tea tree oil and that,” Mrs Hudson says, sounding distracted. “There was another thing – could you come over here to the fireplace for a moment, dear?” 

Sherlock glances at John with a slightly long-suffering look, then gets up and goes into the sitting room. John twists around to catch a glimpse and notices that there _is_ a slight bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. He hides a smile and tries to fight down his supreme annoyance with the fact that they live with a landlady who likes to burst in whenever she likes. And at their age, combined with the fact that she knows they aren’t together, at least that they weren’t before today, he can hardly just say _excuse me, Mrs H, but we were just in the middle of quite a good snog, and Sherlock’s discovering he actually can get it up with the right person, so if you wouldn’t mind buggering off…?_ Perhaps not. Still. It’s extremely irritating. 

She’s chattering away about one of the legs in Sherlock’s beetle collection having fallen off when she was dusting and Sherlock is trying to reassure her. He finally gains the upper hand on her stream of apologetic noises and then says, “Mrs Hudson, I meant to tell you before – I’m actually planning an experiment that may have toxic side effects for this afternoon, so you’ll likely want to stay downstairs, just in case.”

She looks distressed, a hand going to her mouth. “Toxic!” she repeats. 

“It’s all right,” Sherlock reassures her. “John will be here in case it gets out of hand. But I would stay downstairs if I were you.”

She looks very dubious. “Really, Sherlock, is it necessary? For a case, then, is it?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says, lying seamlessly. “Very important for the evidence.”

“All right,” she says. “You be careful.” She looks at John and adds, “And you keep him out of trouble, then.”

“Definitely,” John says. She goes, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. 

Sherlock looks over and him and smirks a bit, his face full of uncharacteristic mirth and something darker lurking behind his eyes. “That’s her dealt with,” he says. 

“Nicely done,” John says admiringly. He gets up and goes over to the fireplace. Sherlock is standing with his back to the fireplace and John stops facing him. Sherlock immediately closes the distance, standing so that their bodies are touching all the way down their fronts. “Where were we?” John asks, a little more breathlessly than he’d intended. 

“We were kissing,” Sherlock says seriously, as though John had forgotten, and before John can formulate any sort of response to his, Sherlock lowers his mouth to his and it starts again. John gets his arms around Sherlock’s back and Sherlock resumes his previous death grip, which is almost funny except that his very proximity, and how very clearly into it he is, is extremely arousing to John. The heady scent of Sherlock, so close, the feeling of the mouth and limbs and body he’s dreamed about touching, being with, for so long – John can hear the small sounds he’s making in his throat, trying to remind himself that they’re supposed to be going slowly so that he doesn’t rip every shred of clothing off Sherlock’s body right here and now. Sherlock keeps his hands to John’s back but they’re inching a bit lower and John wonders if he isn’t sure what is or isn’t off-limits. 

When they come up for breath a bit later, John says, “You know, you can touch me anywhere you like. You don’t have to – but you don’t have to hold back, if you do.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says, his voice lower than it has any right being. He moves his hands to John’s waist and bends to suck at a patch on John’s neck. 

It feels good. Really good. Better than someone as inexperienced as Sherlock supposedly is has any right to be. “You’re – you’re sure you’ve never done this before?” John gasps as Sherlock’s teeth make contact with his skin. 

Sherlock makes a sound of negation and doesn’t stop, his hands drifting back and downward, just barely ghosting over John’s arse. 

John responds by pressing even closer, moving his own hands to Sherlock’s arse. “This okay?” he manages to get out as Sherlock’s mouth transfers to his jaw bone. 

“Mm-hm.” Sherlock is apparently absorbed in what he’s doing, and John thinks it’s going quite, _quite_ well, when he suddenly withdraws. “Is this – is this all right?” he asks suddenly, pulling back to look at John. 

“What?” John asks, startled. “Yeah – yes! It’s great!” A sudden twinge of worry occurs. “Why? Do you not… like it?”

Sherlock watches him for a moment, then nods. “I do,” he says, though it sounds cautious. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting to happen next, though.”

John’s mouth opens before he realises he has no idea what to say to this. He splutters for a second, then says, “Well – it all depends, really. Nothing _has_ to happen at all.”

Sherlock’s gaze is needle-sharp. “You’re sure about that?” he asks, clearly sceptical. “If I were to say right now that I don’t want it to ever go any further than this – you’re still sure.” He sounds dubious in the extreme. 

Is this a test? John attempts to collect his lust-addled thoughts. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Absolutely. We can just kiss for the rest of our lives, if that’s all you want.” Oops. He hadn’t meant to say that, the _rest of our lives_ bit, but there it is. 

Sherlock blinks at him, then suddenly smiles. “Good,” he says. “I just wanted to confirm. I would be open to – further experimentation. Though I feel I should warn you again not to… expect too much.”

“Of course,” John says hastily. “But you _are_ responding, aren’t you? Physically, I mean?” He presses a bit closer and says, “I could feel it, before… and I like it.”

Sherlock looks slightly frustrated. “But it might not last,” he says. “I can’t guarantee that.”

“It’s okay,” John says again. “It really is.”

Sherlock’s mouth purses. “Sure?”

“Completely sure.”

“All right, then,” Sherlock says, dubious. He kisses John again, lightly, though it’s clear that his thoughts are not entirely on the kiss. 

“Question,” John says against his lips after another exchange of short, light kisses. 

“Mmm?”

“Do you – uh, do you – you know – touch yourself, at all? Masturbate?” John clarifies. 

Sherlock moves his hands from John’s arse up to his shoulders, but his face remains open, not closing off. “On occasion,” he says. His eyes drift to John’s mouth again. “More often since you came into my life.” He clears his throat, looking self-conscious, and adds, “Considerably more often.”

John smiles. “Before, when you said that there was a male someone you’d been attracted to – was that me?”

Sherlock looks a bit wary, but nods. “Who else could it have been?”

“I don’t know,” John says. “So, when you touch yourself - do you think of me?”

He is rewarded by another creeping flush stealing up Sherlock’s neck this time. “On occasion,” he repeats. “Does that bother you?”

“Hardly!” Oh. Too enthusiastic, possibly? John dials it back. “I like it,” he says, more calmly. “That’s a huge turn-on, in fact.”

“Is it?” Something in Sherlock’s face sparks at this. “Do you… think about me?”

“All the time,” John says honestly. He kisses Sherlock on the chin and Sherlock kisses him back on the mouth after. It turns into a longer kiss, Sherlock cautiously getting himself closer again, his shoulders relaxing into the embrace. 

“What – ” Sherlock interrupts himself to kiss John – “do we – ” kiss “do in these – ” kiss “thoughts of yours?” 

John’s cock is throbbing gently in his jeans and he can feel an answering firmness in Sherlock’s trousers, though it might not be completely hard yet. Perhaps he can change that. “Everything,” he says, lowering his voice. He lifts his chin to prompt Sherlock to go for his neck while he’s talking. Rubbing circles over Sherlock’s arse, he says, “We touch each other everywhere, with our hands and mouths and cocks – I imagine different places where we do it, here in the flat and other places, sometimes. I imagine scenarios where it could happen. I imagine being inside you, or you doing that to me. I imagine the sounds you would make and the way we would look together – ”

Sherlock moans, actually moans, and pulls John’s hips flush against his own, and even with their height difference, John can feel Sherlock’s erection, hard in his trousers. “John,” he says hoarsely, “I want – ”

“Yeah?” John asks, trying not to pant too hard. “What do you want? We can do whatever it is – ”

“Touch me,” Sherlock requests, his eyes closing. “Please.”

John wastes no time in slipping his right hand between them to rub at the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers. “Like that?” he murmurs, and Sherlock’s hips buck forward. 

He groans and nods, biting his lip again, steadying himself on John’s hip as John’s fingers find and trace the hard length of him coiled in his underwear. 

“Can I… unzip you?” he asks, trying not to sound clinical. “Could be more comfortable. And – I want to touch you for real.”

Sherlock exhales hard and nods again, and John gets his trousers open quickly and gently. One step at a time, maybe. He massages Sherlock’s cock through his shorts, then works a button open and slips his hand inside. It feels amazing, fisting Sherlock through the slit of his shorts like this, the flesh warm and pulsing in his palm, and Sherlock is hissing breath in through his teeth, hand clamped on John’s hip in a death grip. 

“Okay?” John asks, checking in. 

Sherlock makes a sound that an unkind person might call a whimper. But he nods, teeth digging into his full lower lip. 

“I want you to feel good,” John says softly, stroking Sherlock in long, slow, smooth strokes. Lube would be good, he thinks. There’s some lotion on the coffee table; that will do for now. He doesn’t want to interrupt this to leave the room. 

“I’ve never – no one has ever – touched me like this,” Sherlock gasps out, hips stuttering forward again. “At least not when I’ve – ahh! John – _John_ – ” He is swaying into John and John catches him and propels him toward the sofa. 

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Sofa.” They get there, John’s hand still inside Sherlock’s shorts, but just before they sit down, Sherlock bends to kiss him again, simultaneously putting the hand not currently leaving finger-shaped bruises on John’s hip onto his crotch, cupping his cock and balls, his fingers warm even through the thick denim of his jeans. John groans into his mouth, possibly harder than he’s ever been in his life. Just seeing Sherlock like this, already coming undone, and responding – every nerve twitching under John’s fingers, heat radiating off his skin – somehow they get themselves onto the sofa, half-turned to face each other, still kissing. John is rubbing Sherlock’s nipple through his shirt with a thumb as Sherlock gets his jeans undone. He decides to stop asking if Sherlock is still all right with all of this; it seems fairly clear that he is. And the second Sherlock’s hand closes around his bare cock, John stops thinking rationally about anything. 

They’re kissing wildly now, biting at each other’s mouths and it feels surreal – it’s noon and they’ve just eaten breakfast and now they’re essentially having sex on the sofa. Hand jobs count as sex, right? John thinks hazily, his fist jerking over Sherlock’s prick. He lets go for three seconds to reach for a pump or two of lotion, smearing some onto Sherlock’s palm before working Sherlock’s underwear down all the way and resuming, and Sherlock makes a sound so wanton at the added slickness that John mirrors it before he can prevent himself. Sherlock’s cock is engorged and flushed dark like his cheeks, leaking heavily, and John decides on the spot that he’s never touched or seen anything as sexy in his life. He needs it a little faster and starts to guide Sherlock with his voice, filthy encouragements muttered under his breath. Sherlock is panting, his free hand grasping wherever it lands on John, hips jerking forward into John’s fist. He’s more than half-turned now, moving to straddle John’s lap and somehow that turns into both their cocks in their joined hands, rutting together, Sherlock on top of him, his head bowed forward, eyes and nose crunched in what looks like pain. John’s head is tipped back against the back of the sofa, slouched down as he is and the slide of Sherlock’s dick against his own is so perfectly dirty, so ridiculously arousing that he’s about to come and come hard. He hopes devoutly that Sherlock is prepared for this, because there is no stopping it at this point, at least not as far as he’s concerned. He’s dimly cognisant of their conversation, though, and partly doesn’t want to come before Sherlock in case that puts him off or puts too much pressure on him – but God, waiting any longer for it is nearly out of the question. 

Sherlock’s breath is hitching and then suddenly his eyes fly open as though in alarm and he’s coming and _coming_ , so much that it’s obscene (he really must not wank often, John just barely registers), and the hot, heavy slick of it on their fingers is just the extra nudge he needed before he topples over the edge himself, his hips jerking upward as he feels more than hears himself shout. Pleasure floods his limbs and out of him in bursts and he’s aware of Sherlock panting against his temple even as the stars are shooting behind his eyes.

When he can breathe again, he opens his eyes to find himself with an armful of limp Sherlock, whose face his buried in the back of the sofa, arms loosely around John’s shoulders. “You okay?” he gasps out, still panting. 

Sherlock makes a breathy neutral sound. 

“Yeah?” John gets out, not sure what the sound meant. 

“I think so,” Sherlock mumbles. 

John wipes his hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs Sherlock’s back with both. “You think so?” he asks, his brain coming slowly back on line. “You’re not sure?”

“Just – give me a moment,” Sherlock says, his voice still muffled by the sofa. 

Fair enough. First orgasm with someone else – bound to be a bit of an experience, particularly for someone gaining said experience this late in life. John drops it, his limbs all relaxing, enjoying the heavy weight of Sherlock in his lap and draped all over him. After a bit, Sherlock collects himself and turns so that he’s curled next to John instead of on top of him, his knees and shins resting on John’s thigh. He actually looks a bit shy. 

“Was that… all right?” he asks, looking rather uncertain again. 

John smiles at him and wants to kiss the uncertainty away forever. “Are you kidding?” he says. “More than all right. That was bloody phenomenal.”

Sherlock smiles back, though it’s on the small side. 

John’s smile falters a bit. “How was it for you?” he asks, a touch of concern creeping into his chest. 

“Good,” Sherlock says. He looks down at John’s lap and the colour spreads over his cheeks again. “Very good,” he amends. “I – didn’t mean to get so… carried away, toward the end.”

John feels much better. “Please,” he says, honest. “That was the hottest part about it! I’ve never seen you like that before – and I liked it. A _lot_.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick back up to his, then suddenly he leans forward to kiss John again, as though on impulse. John lets it go on for awhile, losing himself in it and thinking how incredibly glad he is that he _did_ risk having the Talk, if it meant that this could happen. Sherlock slowly uncoils again as they kiss, going so far as to drape a leg over John’s lap, and John touches his face and wants to tell him again that he loves him, but also doesn’t want to overdo it with the sentiment. _Steady on, Watson_. When they pull back again, John reminds himself that they’re both experiencing that dizzy wave of attachment that comes after the first time with someone new and that anything Sherlock says at this point should be taken with a grain of salt. 

However, Sherlock doesn’t say anything in particular, just stays where he is and strokes John’s hair a bit. John has no idea what he’s thinking about. Sherlock’s eyes are on his face but not looking directly into his eyes, and he kisses John once or twice – on the cheek, the forehead, lightly on the mouth again. 

Despite his warning to himself, John feels it all again, trebly strong. Against his better judgement, he pulls Sherlock into his arms again and holds him close, fingers tight on the back of his neck, his mouth turned into Sherlock’s hair. It just feels so good, finally being able to do this, to touch Sherlock and kiss him and hold him like this. (God, he sounds like a fifteen-year-old. A fifteen-year-old girl, at that. Bugger.) Sherlock isn’t dissuading him, though. After a little, John tells himself to detach. Give Sherlock a bit of space to process. (Give himself space to calm down before he starts spewing forth extraneous and overly emotional words.) “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “How are we feeling about that?”

Sherlock blinks once or twice, but doesn’t withdraw. “It – worked,” he says. “I’m – glad it did. For your sake.”

“I’m quite glad, too,” John says. He touches Sherlock’s mouth with his thumb, unable to keep his hands off him entirely. “For both our sakes,” he adds. “It didn’t seem like there was any risk that it wouldn’t, honestly.”

“It was – slow,” Sherlock says with a slight grimace. “It took me longer to – get there, to become fully aroused. And to reach orgasm.”

“That’s fine,” John assures him. “It was well within the normal range. And we’re talking about a difference of seconds, regarding the orgasm.” He pauses for a second, then asks again, just for confirmation. “So, you _did_ like it?”

“I told you I did,” Sherlock says, frowning a little. 

“I know, but… I still don’t quite have a clear idea,” John admits. “I don’t know whether that was liking it as in, it was a tolerable experiment, or as in you’d be amenable to trying it again – that, or similar activities – or as in, you can’t wait for the next time.”

“Is there going to be a next time?” Sherlock asks, his face unreadable. 

John takes a deep breath. “That’s entirely up to you.” Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately, so he asks. Better to keep asking questions than to make a false assumption, Sherlock would say. “Would you like there to be a next time?”

Sherlock nods slowly. “It’s entirely possible that this was a fluke,” he offers. “It’s still quite within the realm of possibility that the next time won’t work. Or that it will take a long time before I want to try it again.”

“Okay,” John says, and tries not to let his heart sink, but then Sherlock adds something that keeps his spirits from dropping too low. 

“Besides – ” a quick, blue look from under his lashes – “I believe there’s a great deal more I have to learn, and I’d… ” He trails off, then looks at John properly and resumes. “I’d like to learn it with you. Because I do feel – that is to say, I feel bound to you, emotionally. And I like this. I’m not sure about my sexual impetus and I feel almost certain that your sexual appetite exceeds mine and I don’t want to disappoint you. But I like _this_ , what we’re doing now, a lot.”

John shakes his head. “You will never disappoint me,” he says, his chest swelling with emotion. 

Sherlock tries for a smile but it doesn’t quite work. “Famous last words.” His eyes shy away from John’s. 

“No – listen, Sherlock,” John says, intense, and Sherlock looks cautiously back at him. “I don’t care what happens. As long as you really feel this way – as long as you care about me in whatever way you can, the rest of it doesn’t matter. I mean that completely.”

“Post-orgasmic chemicals,” Sherlock says, as though this hasn’t already occurred to John. “You may change your mind.”

“Will you?” John challenges. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

“Neither will I,” John says. Sherlock does smile then, his shoulders relaxing, and they abandon the conversation for the time being as their mouths come together again. And it’s fine, John thinks, meaning it. He’ll take whatever Sherlock can give him. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be – well, perfect. 

***

Later, Sherlock closes his laptop and goes into the kitchen. “I think I’ll start the rice,” he says. 

John lifts his head from where he was nearly dozing with his book. “Is that a cue to start the salmon?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The rice will take longer. I’ll make some broccoli to go with it. Unless you’d prefer something else.”

“No, broccoli would be great,” John says. He gets up anyway and follows Sherlock into the kitchen and bends to take a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. Sherlock bought it, so it’s probably a Riesling and a bit too sweet for his taste, but he’s got used to Sherlock’s preference for sweet German whites over the years and quite likes them now. 

Sherlock gets out the broccoli, takes it to the sink and rinses it, shaking out the colander with a bit more force than necessary as John starts putting dry dishes away. He starts chopping the broccoli, also rather forcefully, and John glances at him. Sherlock doesn’t look up, focused on what he’s doing, but his mouth is a bit too set. 

“Everything… all right?” John asks. Everything _seemed_ all right up until now. (What’s going on? Is he just being overly sensitive? Not a trait any of his exes would have accused him of, including Mary, but one never knows…) 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, a bit terse. He collects the broccoli he’s already chopped and puts it in the metal steaming basket, then goes on chopping. 

John goes closer. “You sure?” he asks. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s back. “Because you can tell me if you’re – ”

“I just don’t _know_ , about any of this,” Sherlock says, so suddenly and violently that John nearly takes a step away. 

He doesn’t understand. “About… what?” he asks. “Let’s talk about it; I’m sure we can get it sorted.”

“No, I just mean – ” Sherlock turns his head to glance at him, then looks away, face angling down at the broccoli. “I don’t know the… not the rules, but the – way people are supposed to act, now. I don’t know what’s allowed. What’s normal. Who does what. How it’s supposed to work.”

John relaxes, feeling the smile creep across his face before he can prevent it. “Oh,” he says, hearing the relief in his own voice. “Well – that’s fine, you know. There aren’t any rules. We can set our own ‘normal’. We don’t have to follow anyone else’s.”

Sherlock exhales. “No, that’s not what I mean. I just – I don’t know how I’m supposed to act now. What’s expected. What _you_ expect,” he corrects himself. 

John thinks about this, then shrugs. “What if I’m not expecting anything? What if I’m just playing it by ear as much as you are?”

“But you’ve _done_ this before,” Sherlock says, sounding irritable. He deposits another handful of broccoli into the steamer and sets it over a pot, switching on the element. He turns to lean a hip against the counter, crossing his arms defensively. “Relationships,” he continues, pointedly. “I don’t – I don’t know what I’m doing.”

John spreads his hands and gestures vaguely. “I don’t think it’s as big an issue as you’re thinking,” he says, frowning a bit. “I mean – we’ll just do what we want to do.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Sherlock says, his mouth twitching minutely, and John sees the insecurity again. 

He goes closer and puts his hands on Sherlock’s elbows, hoping he won’t throw off the touch. (He doesn’t.) “I want whatever you want,” he says gently. “I mean that, Sherlock. Don’t – don’t feel like there’s any pressure to do anything differently. I want us to have or be everything we were before, just with – you know. Some extra stuff. You don’t have to change anything you’re doing.”

Something in Sherlock’s face says that this still hasn’t addressed whatever his particular concern is. “But I don’t – I mean, do we do all _that_ only sometimes, at certain points of the day, or – is there any overlap the rest of the time? That’s what I don’t understand.”

John stares at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s mouth presses into a thin line for a moment. He looks away from John and says, “Just now, when you had to stand on your toes to put that one bowl away, I – ” He stops and clears his throat. “I wanted to – I don’t know, touch you or – something along those lines. I wasn’t sure if it was – not ‘allowed’, but – the right sort of thing to do. If it’s out of place when we’re making dinner but not out of place at other points. That’s what I mean. For instance.”

John feels his heart turn to the equivalent of molten lava and stares with unabashed affection welling out of him in ridiculously gigantic waves. “Sherlock,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “if you ever feel like touching me, you’re allowed. It’s that simple. I promise. If you feel the sudden urge to, ever – as long as we’re at home or relatively in private, at least, you don’t have to ask. I’m not going to find it inappropriate. If you want us to be doing anything along those lines, I’ll be happy about it every time. And if you only feel the urge once a week – or less, I don’t know – that’s okay, too.”

Sherlock stares back at him, biting the inside of his lip. “You’re sure?” he asks uncertainly. “I just don’t want to… get it wrong. Disappoint you.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said something about disappointing me,” John says, feeling his eyebrows come together. “Just put that notion out of your head, all right? You’re not going to disappoint me unless you leave me, or kick me out or something. Anything else – no matter how unconventional or whatever, I don’t care. If it’s you and me and we’re happy, I’ll be happy. Promise.”

Sherlock uncrosses his arms then. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says. 

“You really don’t have to announce it ev – ” John finds himself cut off as Sherlock closes the space between them and kisses him, arms locking around his shoulders, his hands smelling faintly of broccoli and John couldn’t possibly care less. They kiss for a long moment and John’s heart feels so full he thinks it could burst. So all this was about Sherlock catching him struggling to reach the top shelf and suddenly feeling affectionate enough about him than he’d wanted to initiate contact of some sort, but wasn’t sure it was _allowed_ , or acceptable/normal/whatever else? They have nothing to worry about, John thinks. Sherlock is just new at this, but soon enough he’ll have it all figured out and he’ll be ordering John to strip him in the middle of the sitting room or something. 

There’s a sizzle as a splash of hot water hisses on the element and Sherlock breaks off the kiss to turn down the heat under his broccoli. 

“I’ll start the salmon,” John says, and Sherlock smiles at him out the corner of his eyes. John can practically feel the hearts blooming in his own and has to fight to keep from grinning back like a complete loon. 

Later, after supper, they watch the news on the sofa and John sits close beside Sherlock and gets an arm behind his back so that Sherlock can put his around John’s shoulders if he feels so inclined. He catches on and does it, and by the second story they’re snogging again. When the programme ends, John gets up to check his email and Sherlock plays some Brahms on the violin. When it’s time for bed, John wants to make it clear that he’s not expecting anything else to happen today, and decides to be extremely casual about it. He goes to brush his teeth, rubs a hand over the stubble that’s grown during the day, then finds Sherlock in his chair and bends to kiss him good night. 

“I’m off to bed,” he says, then kisses him, a hand balanced on his shoulder. 

“Good night,” Sherlock says after, and that’s that. 

John goes up to bed and lies awake for an hour, thinking about Sherlock and how great it all is. He ends up touching himself a bit and wonders what Sherlock is thinking in the bedroom directly below. He wonders if Sherlock is touching himself, too, and lets the fantasy of it carry him right to the point of his orgasm. He turns on his side then and falls asleep immediately, happier than he’s ever been in his life. 

***

In the morning, Sherlock is already dressed when John comes down to shower. “Morning,” John says, stopping to kiss the top of his head as he passes. Sherlock’s arm reaches out and curls around him before he can move on, however, and he finds himself pulled down for a proper kiss. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock says after, the corners of his mouth not quite hiding his smile. 

“You going somewhere?” John asks, a hand in the back of Sherlock’s damp curls. 

“Just to the lab,” Sherlock says vaguely. “There are some brains I need to have a look at.”

“Sounds like fun,” John says lightly. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” Sherlock tells him. “I was waiting for you to wake up.”

John tries not to smile too hard. “Great,” he says, keeping his voice casual. “I’ll be quick, then.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, with a smirk. “I’m actually rather hungry.”

“Miracles will never cease,” John says, filtering out a joke about increased appetites in general. “If you’re going to the lab today, I might actually go down and paint Mrs Hudson’s kitchen like she’s been wanting for ages now.”

Sherlock makes a face. “Have fun,” he says dubiously, and John swats him and goes off to shower, grinning to himself. 

***

Later, when they’re both home, Sherlock steps out to collect Chinese takeaway and John fusses at his hair in the mirror and tells himself to stop being stupid. They’ve lived together for long enough now. Having been apart all day, he can’t help but hope that Sherlock might be curious and/or interested in trying again, or trying something else, but it’s also only the second day and he meant every syllable of what he’s said from the start, about it being fine if Sherlock isn’t as into sex as he is. Or wants it, but not as often. He just has to act normally and the rest will sort itself out. It’s odd to have this development happen so late into a relationship that’s already so close and so domestically at ease, but he also meant it when he told Sherlock the day before that not knowing what to expect is normal and fine and that they’d figure it out. Personally, John wouldn’t mind knowing the “rules”, either, but of course it doesn’t work that way. 

They eat together, sitting on the sofa and it’s comfortable and charged at the same time. John doesn’t say or do anything to instigate – well, anything, because the last thing he wants is for Sherlock to feel pressured, after all. Still, he’s not entirely soft in his underwear and can’t stop glancing at bits of Sherlock that he likes especially, or noticing the way he moves or the pitch of his voice. They watch telly and Sherlock takes his hand and holds it, but not idly – he examines John’s fingers, his palm, his wrist, interlocks his own fingers with them, then stops doing that and without warning, closes his lips around one finger. It’s an immediate and intense turn-on and John’s partial erection fills itself out in a heartbeat as Sherlock’s tongue encircles his finger, probing at the nail and pad before withdrawing again. After that, he resumes holding it and John attempts to subtly adjust himself and reminds himself to be content with this, with Sherlock’s hand in his. 

When they go to say goodnight, they’re both standing near the doorway to the hall, where John’s about to go upstairs. John steps close to Sherlock and says, “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” Sherlock says, and puts his hands on John’s shoulders and kisses him. And kisses him again. And then again. His mouth opens before John’s does, tongue seeking John’s immediately this time, and suddenly they’re much closer, pressed together and John is concerned that Sherlock will feel the unrelenting bulge in his pants and be put off. Nothing seems to be putting Sherlock off, though; he does indeed seem to love kissing, as he said yesterday. His arms are strong around John’s back as their tongues and lips stroke together and John begins to worry that he may actually go off in his pants from this alone. They break apart at last and Sherlock says, “Good night, John.” But before John can step away, Sherlock’s mouth is on his again, as though he can’t stop himself, and John makes a sound he can’t quite prevent, every movement of Sherlock’s mouth going straight to his cock. 

Several minutes later, Sherlock pulls away a bit. “John…” His eyes are heavy-lidded and flooded with clear arousal. 

“Mm-hm?” John manages, eyes still on Sherlock’s mouth, that gloriously kissable mouth, his cock positively thrumming in his pants by this point. 

“Perhaps you don’t need to – that is, perhaps you could… stay down here tonight?” Sherlock asks, his voice almost rasping with what John’s lust-clouded brain manages to recognise as decided arousal. 

“Oh, God, please,” he says, and Sherlock’s mouth twists into a grin, laughing at him, and John doesn’t care a bit. 

They make it into the bedroom and Sherlock switches out the lights before they take off their (own) clothes and get into opposite sides of the bed, immediately finding each other in the middle, lying on their sides and kissing again, and when John reaches south, Sherlock’s erection bumps wetly into his hand and he takes it instinctively. Sherlock lets out his breath in a gasp and finds John’s cock under the blankets and it’s so easy this way, so easy to just thrust into each other’s fists, kissing hard until it’s more just panting into each other’s mouths and coming hotly, waves of pleasure rolling over them, and then Sherlock wraps himself around John like an octopus and John loves it, half-stifled but extremely well-satisfied with the entire arrangement. They fall asleep that way, still sticky and covered in their own mess and neither one of them caring in the slightest. 

***

When John wakes, it only takes him a moment to recognise the dove-grey linens and soft green brocade of the wallpaper of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock himself is gone, though. John sits up against the headboard and listens. There is water running in the kitchen, though it shuts off and then Sherlock’s step sounds in the hall. A moment later he appears, bearing two cups of tea.

“Morning,” he says, giving one to John and then sitting down on the side of the bed. 

“Ta,” John says, holding the hot cup carefully. “And good morning, yourself.” He smiles at Sherlock and Sherlock smiles back, blowing on his tea. “Been awake long?” John adds, taking a sip. 

Sherlock made a non-committal sound. “Not that long.”

That could mean anywhere from one hour to three. “Ah,” John says, with a slight smile. 

Sherlock’s brows draw together fractionally. “Problem?” he asks, cup pausing just in front of his mouth. 

“No,” John says slowly. 

Sherlock lowers the cup and frowns at him. “You can’t do that,” he objects. “You have to tell me. Have I done something wrong?”

John puts his tea down on Sherlock’s night stand and reaches over, a hand on the wrist not holding his cup. “No,” he says, careful to keep it gentle. He tries a smile. “I just thought – it could have been nice to wake up with you, that’s all,” he says. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock doesn’t look persuaded, but he says, his features carefully schooled, “Perhaps next time.”

John’s mouth quirks. “Does that mean there will be a time next?” he asks, consciously echoing Sherlock’s question two days earlier. “Am I going to be invited to stay again?”

Sherlock takes another sip of his tea, eyes hidden. “I should think so, yes,” he says to his cup, his voice studiedly even. 

“Put your tea down,” John says. 

Sherlock’s brows quirk upward. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to kiss you and I’d rather not spill hot tea in your lap,” John says. 

Sherlock’s smile escapes him before he can help himself. He dutifully sets his cup next to John’s and John pulls him into his arms and kisses him until he’s lying on top of Sherlock and it doesn’t matter that he’s nude and Sherlock is fully dressed at all. After a while, Sherlock asks, a bit short of breath, “I thought perhaps we should go out for breakfast.”

“Perfect,” John says. “That place with the waffles?” 

“If you like.” Sherlock’s hand is on his arse cheek. “You may want to dress first. I hear that public nudity is frowned upon in most places.”

“Hmm,” John says in mock-consideration. “Yes. Perhaps. Clothes it is. I want to shower, too. Bit sticky from yesterday.”

They separate and Sherlock looks down at his trousers in slight consternation, but they’re fine (to John’s slight relief; he doesn’t want Sherlock to start getting fastidious about the messy factor of sex only just after he’s started doing it at all). 

Over breakfast, John brings up the thing he’s been thinking for a bit already. They’re seated in the window at a table for two that’s small enough that their hands touch occasionally as they eat and there’s a enough space around them and enough background noise that they have a discussion without being overheard. “Just to confirm,” he says, cutting another piece of his waffle and poking a strawberry onto it with his knife, “you’ve never been intimate with a man in any way, right?”

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes still on his plate. “No.”

“So those four people that you kissed for cases – they were all women?” 

“Yes.”

John hesitates. “Was Irene Adler one of them?”

Sherlock looks up and takes a sip of his coffee. “Are you still jealous about that? It’s been _years_ , John.”

“But did you?” John presses, half holding his breath. 

Sherlock shakes his head again. “Satisfied?” he asks, looking out the window. 

“Yeah,” John says, feeling slightly abashed for having pushed it. “I just – I thought she would have, that’s all. I mean, she obviously wanted to, and she doesn’t seem the sort that – well, doesn’t get what she wants. And she wanted you. She told me that.”

“She also told you that you and I were a couple back then,” Sherlock says. “Right after you denied it. All of that was a very long time ago. What’s the point of asking about it?”

John shrugs, feeling self-conscious. “I just wondered, that’s all. I just – I mean, if she ever came back into our lives, since we both know she’s not dead, I would just wonder, that’s all.”

“What would you wonder?” Sherlock stops eating, all of his focus on John. 

John already feels badly for even having said this much and tries to backpedal. “Well – she’s just really – persuasive, I guess, and I don’t think she’ll ever stop wanting you.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “What about what I want?”

John stops moving, too. He hadn’t thought of this. _Proceed with caution, Watson_. “You have a point,” he says carefully. “Sorry. Really, Sherlock. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

Sherlock’s shoulders settle half an inch and he cuts another forkful of blueberry waffle. “You were asking about those four cases. Was it just to ask about the Woman, or was there something else you were trying to ask about?”

John takes a sip of coffee. “It was mostly that I wanted to know if you’d ever been with a bloke,” he admits. “But you said you haven’t.”

“No,” Sherlock confirms instantly. “I haven’t.”

“So – why did you think that made you – I don’t know, uninterested in anything?” John asks. “I mean, I can see it making you think you were – well, gay, but – ”

Sherlock shrugs slightly. He takes another bite and chews slowly, obviously thinking it over. “I suppose just because of my general lack of interest. My priority has always been my work, as you know, and until you came into my life, no one else had ever provided any sort of significant distraction. Or any distraction at all, for that matter. So when I also found myself physically unresponsive, I came to the conclusion that it was simply not something that I do.”

John smiles and touches the back of his hand to Sherlock’s. “I find you quite responsive, personally,” he says, lowering his voice to a murmur. 

Sherlock smiles to himself, eyes on his fork. “Evidently I underestimated the influence of attraction,” he says. 

“And sentiment,” John adds, meaning it as a joke, but Sherlock frowns slightly. 

“Yes,” he says, a trifle distantly, and John feels badly for having pressed the question of Sherlock’s precise feelings for him again. Oops. But then Sherlock’s phone pings a text alert and he picks it up. His eyes light up. “Case!” he says. 

John’s nearly finished, but – “Pressing?” he asks. The waffle is _very_ good. He’ll abandon it if he has to, but… 

“You can finish,” Sherlock says magnanimously, though he pushes his own plate away and swiftly drinks the rest of his coffee, holding out his cup for a refill from a passing server. 

John gratefully downs the rest of his breakfast, washes it down with coffee, and then they’re on the kerb and getting into a cab not thirty seconds later. 

***

The crime scene consists of a missing heirloom necklace, a room which is empty save for an old desk (also empty), and a set of mouse prints in the dust, all of which is somehow enough for Sherlock to pronounce to Lestrade, Donovan, and O’Malley (new forensics bloke) that the thief is still on the premises, likely in the attic. They all stare at Sherlock, dumbfounded. 

“Are you _sure_?” Lestrade asks, incredulous. 

Sherlock looks at John. “The necklace was never in this room,” he says. “The ‘thief’ is the owner’s neighbour, with whom she’s been having an affair. They’ve set this up for the insurance money. It’s fraud, plain and simple.”

“But – how do you know?” Donovan wants to know. 

Sherlock’s eyes gleam and he launches into the full deduction at light speed and John watches him, his arms crossed, barely aware that his own mouth is open, and it all makes perfect sense, as it always does, yet none of them ever would have come up with it. He spares a fleeting moment of incredulity that he’s actually allowed to _kiss_ this man. “Phenomenal,” he breathes aloud without meaning to, and Sherlock’s head turns sharply toward him. 

He actually loses his train of thought, a flush spreading over his cheekbones and he stumbles over his next four words before regaining control of his tongue. He says something to Lestrade that John isn’t paying attention to, vaguely aware that whatever it was makes Lestrade and the rest scatter from the room in the direction of the attic, and Sherlock is still staring at him. The moment they’re alone, Sherlock swoops over and kisses him soundly – briefly, but very soundly, and then he’s off after the rest with a “Come on, John!” over his shoulder as John blinks stupidly and tries to collect his wits. 

Six hours later finds them sprinting out of a jewellery store seconds after a bomb goes off, but they’re still not home free – the neighbour, who was apparently into more than even Sherlock realised initially, fires from four o’clock and John hauls Sherlock behind him and gets a perfect knee cap shot off. Lestrade changes directions, yelling and pelting toward the neighbour, Donovan hot on his tail. Three or four other cops join them on the scene from the stake-out vehicles scattered around the perimeter and Sherlock looks at him and grins. 

John grins back, adrenaline singing through his veins. They go over to the neighbour, who is yelling threats and profanities through his teeth, clutching at his knee in pain. Lestrade’s disarmed him and Donovan is attempting to pry his hands off his knee long enough to cuff him, with mixed success. She gets a knee into his back, forcing him to sit up, then twists his arms behind him and gets the cuffs on. 

“Nice shot!” Lestrade says, admiringly. They’ve been over the ground of his illegal Sig years ago by now and Lestrade doesn’t care, as long as John doesn’t actually kill anyone. They’ve still never told him about Jeff Hope, the cab driver. Lestrade’s reasoning was that Sherlock needed someone to watch his back, anyway, and John agreed wholeheartedly, so they’d left it at that. 

“Thanks,” John says him. 

“Interesting explosives,” Sherlock says coolly to the neighbour. “Very amateur, but interesting mixture. Of course, it would have been more effective if you’d targeted the structural integrity, but if you were only aiming for loud noises, congratulations.” He smirks. “Good day.” He turns and starts walking, nodding at John to come with him. 

“Oi,” Lestrade says. “You done?”

Sherlock turns back and spreads his hands out. “You hardly need me to take his statement. Carry on.”

“All right, fine,” Lestrade grumbles, shooing them off. 

Sherlock picks up his pace, already hailing a cab as they reach the street. He glances at John just before they get inside, then is pointedly silent for the duration of the short ride; they’re only just in Lambeth. Sherlock pays and hurries into the house, and the instant John gets inside, Sherlock crowds him up against the back of the door, mouth close to his ear. “I will never get enough of watching you run and shoot a gun at the same time,” he says, voice so low it’s nearly a growl, his thighs and hips trapping John against the door. 

John is instantly hard as a rod, completely turned on by Sherlock’s voice and proximity, plus the sudden neediness. He opens his mouth and somehow says the last thing he means to. “Mrs Hudson…” It’s a weak protest, but the smell of fresh paint is still hanging in the air from yesterday and her walking in on them there in the front hall is about the last thing he wants – though he did tell Sherlock any time, as long as they were home. 

“Then be quiet,” Sherlock breathes. His hands are working at John’s zip, fingers reaching in and rubbing over John’s unprotesting flesh as their mouths meet, and despite his protest, John kisses back hungrily. He reaches for Sherlock, but Sherlock’s hips tilt away, his mouth landing on John’s neck and sucking there. “I want to taste you everywhere,” he says, breathing the words onto John’s skin. 

Heels tap across the floor then and John jerks his coat around his open jeans as Sherlock hastily steps away and turns around just as Mrs Hudson opens the door to 221A.

“Oh, hello,” he says to Mrs Hudson, not quite able to hide the fact that he’s breathing hard. 

She looks surprised to see them. “Hello! What are you two doing there, in the doorway? Going somewhere?”

“Just got back, actually,” Sherlock says. “We were just going upstairs. Come on, John.”

He takes the stairs quickly and John gives Mrs Hudson a nervous smile and follows as quickly as his open jeans and raging hard-on will allow. Inside the flat, Sherlock is laughing about it, laughing at him, and John shuts him up with his mouth and herds him into the hall. He was aiming for Sherlock’s bedroom but they never make it that far. Sherlock pushes him up against the wall and goes back to what he was doing, dropping to his knees. John realises what he’s about to do – it’s hardly rocket science – and inhales sharply at the very thought of it. 

Sherlock glances up at him. “This is – is this all right?” he asks, for confirmation. 

“Oh yeah,” John assures him, trying to smile, but it’s difficult because Sherlock has a hand around him already, and when he puts his mouth on John’s cock, John’s ability to form words dissolves instantly. “Oh, _God_ ,” is all he can manage in a heartfelt groan, and Sherlock makes a pleased sound that hums along his cock and directly into his balls. For a beginner he’s astonishingly good, though John’s always maintained that you can’t really bugger up a blow job, as long as the teeth stay out of the equation. He need not have worried with Sherlock; those exquisite lips are wrapped around his cock and sucking, the insides of his cheeks silk-smooth and hot, his tongue cupping John’s length from beneath. John’s fingers are scrabbling uselessly at the wallpaper, trying not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, his toes curling in the shoes he never had time to take off. He has the wit to realise that Sherlock could probably do with some positive affirmation besides the noises he’s making, but he can’t quite summon the words. Bugger it, he thinks, moaning helplessly again, he’ll just have to make up for it after. He’s going to come any second now and starts trying to say Sherlock’s name, to warn him, but Sherlock makes a sound of negation, never removing his mouth once (thank _God_ ) and grasps John’s hips with both hands, his tongue massaging the head of John’s cock and that does it – he feels himself erupt into Sherlock’s mouth in hot pulses, his hands touching anything they can find to hold onto – the walls, his own chest, his face – as his cock empties itself into Sherlock’s mouth. It’s every dirty fantasy he’s had about Sherlock and then some. 

When he’s spent, Sherlock releases his cock and sits back on his heels and when John looks down, he can see the obvious tent in his trousers. “Was that – ” Sherlock starts, the earlier wildness gone, his lack of certainty back. 

Let’s remedy that, John thinks to himself. “Good God,” he says, meaning every syllable. “That was bloody _amazing_.”

Sherlock smiles, looking almost more relieved than pleased. “Was it?”

“Did you hear any complaints?” John throws back, still breathing hard. “Come on. Let me take care of you.” 

Sherlock allows himself to be pulled to his feet and John kisses him and starts touching him through his clothes. Sherlock seems to be content with this, but John wants to return the favour and propels him toward the bedroom. Sherlock is groaning into his mouth, though, and in the doorway, he grips John’s wrist. “Please,” he breathes against John’s mouth. “Just – I don’t want to wait – just – would you – ”

“With my hand?” John asks, confirming, and doesn’t wait for Sherlock’s nod. He gets his hand into Sherlock’s underwear and jerks him off quickly, sucking on his tongue and lips until Sherlock breaks away a minute later, gasping and coming all over John’s hand and forearm, his arm clamped around John’s shoulders, breath hot on his forehead. His body goes limp in John’s arms and John catches him and gets him to the bed. He kicks off his shoes and grabs for some tissues from the dresser, wiping off his hand and the bit that got on Sherlock’s trousers, too, before tossing the tissues away and flopping down next to Sherlock on the bed. “That was _good_ ,” he says. 

Sherlock is on his front and gets his arms folded under his chin, turning his head to face John, who is on his back and gazing at the ceiling. “Agreed,” he says. “You should run around and shoot things more often. Evidence would suggest that it has a strongly positive influence on our sex life.”

“Our sex life being, what, three times now?” John returns, teasing lightly. 

“Four if you count the fact that I masturbated thinking about our first encounter that night,” Sherlock says, the corners of his lips twitching into a smirk. 

“So did I,” John says, grinning. 

“I should have come upstairs.”

“You should have,” John agrees. “Would you like that? To watch me?”

Sherlock contemplates this. “I was thinking more along the lines of joining in, but… yes, I think I would like that. Sometime.”

“Participating is definitely more fun,” John agrees. “But there’s something to the voyeuristic thing.”

“There’s something about watching you do anything,” Sherlock counters. 

“Says the man who deduced insurance fraud from mouse prints.”

Sherlock smiles. “I’m going to kiss you again.”

“No complaints here,” John says, and Sherlock crawls onto him and does exactly that. 

***

Molly calls the next day during breakfast. John had made a standard fry-up, to which Sherlock had contributed coffee and a thorough distracting by standing behind John as he was cooking and kissing his neck. He’d woken John with his mouth on his rapidly-hardening cock again, claiming that experiments need to be repeated to verify certain data and John had accepted it uncomplaining. This time Sherlock had been so needy by the time John had come that he’d been all but humping the sheets, panting, his limbs tense as anything as John had got himself down there and finally got his mouth on Sherlock’s cock under the blankets. Sherlock’s reaction had been so vocal John had thought of Mrs Turner’s couple next door, but wasn’t about to say anything to lessen the experience of Sherlock’s first blow job. It was John’s first time giving one, too, and it was about exactly the way he’d thought it would be. Sherlock’s cock is gorgeous, like the rest of him, the head fitting against John’s tongue as though it had been made to order. Sherlock had come about three minutes into it, shouting as his cock discharged itself down John’s throat, his fists white-knuckled in the sheets. After, when he could breathe again, he’d said John’s name and John had crawled up over him, the cool air slipping in past the blankets around his shoulders as they’d kissed, and it had been, in a word, fantastic. Sherlock had gone to shower then and John had thought of joining him, but decided to make breakfast instead, so that it would be nearly ready by the time Sherlock was out. Sherlock had been quick, though, coming into the kitchen in his dressing gown and making coffee before coming over to put his arms around John, bending to kiss his neck. 

“Is this still all right?” he’d murmured, and instead of telling him again that it was always going to be all right, John had just nodded and hummed a decided yes, reaching up behind himself to touch Sherlock’s wet curls. 

Molly’s call comes as they’re drinking tea and finishing the last of the toast. Sherlock answers, listens for a moment, then says, “Thank you. I’ll come by in an hour or two.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Interesting body?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Another brain. Six of them, actually.”

John feels surprised despite himself. “That’s a lot of brains.”

Sherlock smiles slightly but doesn’t explain. “She’s been keeping an eye out for suitable ones for what I’m studying.”

Bless Molly Hooper, John thinks. If that isn’t the strangest way to try to get someone’s attention that there is. She’s incurable. “Well, enjoy,” he says. 

“What are you doing today?” Sherlock asks, refilling both their cups. 

John shrugs. “Nothing much. Maybe I’ll come visit you at the lab if I get bored.”

“All right,” Sherlock says. Sometimes he doesn’t like having other people around when he’s studying, but he almost never minds John being there. Now John wonders if he actually liked it all along. 

***

When Sherlock still isn’t home at 4pm, John decides to go by the lab. He texts Molly to ask if he’s still there, though he’s sure that something in her demeanour will make it clear to Sherlock that he texted, anyway, but still – he can at least _try_ to surprise him. When he walks into the room and Sherlock actually does look surprised to see him for a split second, John is pleased. 

Sherlock smiles and looks back down into the microscope again. “Hello,” he says. 

“Hi.” John crosses the lab and goes to stand behind Sherlock, taking off his jacket. Molly is over at the computer, typing something and squinting at the screen. “Hello,” he says to her. 

“Oh, hi John,” she says, sounding distracted, then looks over at Sherlock. “Sorry, I’ve almost finished – and then I’ll be out of your hair again.”

“It’s your lab,” Sherlock says without any particular inflection, not looking up. 

“Still – I’ll just print this and then I need to go back downstairs, anyway.” Molly gets up and goes to the printer, fiddling with it. 

John crosses his arms and wanders about a bit. Molly gets herself out with a minimum of further chatter, which must be a relief to Sherlock. “How are the brains?” he asks, aware that he’s doing it, himself. 

“They’re – good,” Sherlock says vaguely. “It’s interesting. I just wish I could dissect my own instead of just doing a scan.”

“Hang on a tick,” John says, stopping in his tracks. “You’re doing a brain scan on yourself? What for?”

“Nothing of medical concern,” Sherlock assures him. “Just for comparisons’ sake.”

John snorts a bit. “Is this something about comparing a brain of above average intelligence? Trying to prove how clever you are? Because I think most people know already.”

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound. “No, it’s nothing to do with that,” he says. 

John subsides into silence, not wanting to irritate Sherlock. Evidently he’d asked the wrong question. The lab is quiet today, most of the machines off. Nothing is whirring except the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights and Sherlock himself is unusually still. Several moments pass in the quiet. 

“John,” Sherlock says, a bit later. 

“Yeah?” 

Something is a bit rigid in Sherlock’s back. “Would you…” he begins slowly, the request somehow reluctant. He inhales. “Would you mind… just – touching me, somehow? I don’t care how. I just – ” He stops again, possibly embarrassed. Yes, John can see his ears reddening and again, feels his heart turn to utter mush. 

“Of course,” he says, his voice a little rough. He walks over to stand behind Sherlock and puts his arms around his middle, leaning his face into Sherlock’s hair. The idiot, he thinks, suffused with stupid emotion, thinking he was asexual or something, when really he’s starved for physical affection, for visceral, human connection, just as much as anyone else. Or possibly even more, having denied himself for so long. Or having been denied it. Either way. John tightens his arms, and stands there, silently pouring love into Sherlock through his back, and then Sherlock twists around on the stool in his arms and kisses him, John standing between his legs, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him tightly. 

They kiss and kiss, and after awhile, Sherlock asks, his voice low and not quite even, “Does it ever go away? Feeling like this? Wanting it all the time?”

John doesn’t know precisely what he means by “it” but he’s guessing something to do with the desire for contact in general. “It does, a bit,” he says, kissing Sherlock’s forehead and running his thumbs over Sherlock’s brows. “It won’t go away entirely – I devoutly hope! But it fades a bit after the beginning, usually. Always has for me, at least,” he amends. “Why? Are you finding it a distraction?”

“Completely,” Sherlock says, looking distressed. 

“You’ll learn to balance it,” John promises. “You will. It’s just new, that’s all.” He brushes back Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock’s arms tighten still more. 

“Right now I don’t even want to,” he admits, and that lovely stain is there on his cheeks again and John wants to kiss every inch of his face for hours. Years. He settles for Sherlock’s mouth, though, his heart pounding in his throat. It’s been years since kissing was either this emotional or this arousing for him, but Sherlock has always been exceptional, he thinks. After a bit, Sherlock pulls away. “John.” There’s a slight question in his tone. 

“Mmm?” 

“When we get home,” Sherlock starts, fingers pinching a bit of the material of John’s shirt at his back and fidgeting with it, “maybe after supper, we could…”

“Yeah,” John says. He can feel Sherlock’s heart beating through his own chest in counterpoint with his own. “Absolutely. My thoughts precisely.”

“No, I mean… perhaps we could try it... properly,” Sherlock says, then clarifies. “Sex. I want to do the – ” he gesticulates a bit “ – the full version.”

Desire floods through John’s veins and fills his mouth with saliva. He swallows and nods at the same time. “Oh yeah,” he promises. “We can definitely do that!”

Sherlock smiles at him again, a secretive smile that brings out his dimples and parts of his face that John doesn’t often see and he really has no choice but to kiss him again, so he does. 

Neither of them hears the door open again, which is a sure sign of utter absorption on Sherlock’s part. 

“Oh!” Molly exclaims. She gives a self-conscious little laugh as they break apart, though John doesn’t move particularly far, still standing between Sherlock’s knees. “I’m sorry,” Molly says, waving a hand about in apology. “I didn’t – realise!”

She doesn’t sound upset, John thinks. (Good. As if she’d ever had a hope with Sherlock.) He clears his throat. “Er, sorry,” he says. “We didn’t, uh, hear the door.”

“Yeah,” Molly says, dimpling at him. “I kind of guessed that.” Her eyes go to Sherlock and she smiles at him, actually beams. It’s a private sort of smile, clearly meant just for him, but she looks very pleased. “I’ll – um. I’m just off, actually. You two just – carry on. You’ll lock up, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiles back at her, lips pressing a bit in what John recognises as a self-conscious movement. “Of course.”

“Great,” Molly says. She picks up a large box of something. “John, would you be able to get the door for me?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” John says, and goes to help her. “This your purse?” he asks, picking up a handbag that can only belong to Molly Hooper (cats embroidered on it in with sparkly beads). 

“Oh, right! I’ll want that!” Molly gets herself and her box to the doors and waits for John. Out in the corridor, she stops and turns to face him, her face very serious. “So,” she says. 

Suddenly John wonders if he’s in for a “break his heart and die” sorts of chat and braces himself. “So?” he repeats. 

“Don’t mind me,” Molly says, and takes a deep breath. “I can see it’s serious and I just wanted to say – I hope it is. I really, really do.”

“Okay,” John says, blinking at her. “It is.”

“Good,” she says quickly. “It’s just – he’s wanted this for so long, you know. He never thought you would want him that way. And now he’s worried that he won’t be enough for you, that he’ll disappoint you and then you’ll change your mind again.”

John shakes his head. “How many times do I have to tell him, he’s not going to disappoint me? It’s going really well and I think he’s happy.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Molly says. “He’s more than happy. He’s so happy he’s afraid. He thinks – well, do you know what he’s doing, with this study?”

John frowns. “No. Just that it’s to do with a whole lot of brains.”

Molly shifts the box to her other arm. “He’s studying the brains of people who’ve lived long lives where they’ve loved and been loved versus the brains of people who’ve always been alone, and he’s talking about trying to get his own brain scanned. I’ve always known he loved you but I didn’t realise things had already started, between you. I think he’s trying to see if he can’t prove to you, scientifically, that he really is capable of love. And that he loves you more than anything. He hasn’t said it in those words, but – you know Sherlock. He never would.”

John feels her words hit him right in the chest. His forehead is wrinkling up, his throat tightening, and suddenly he’s afraid to speak. 

Molly watches his reaction and smiles nicely. “Don’t look like that,” she says. “I just thought you might want to know that. He’s different, but he’s like anyone else underneath, and he loves you more than anything. He has for a very long time now. Just – don’t doubt that, all right?” 

John nods, still afraid to open his mouth. He clears his throat twice before he feels it safe to try speaking. “Do – do you want a hand with that?” he asks, pointing at the box. 

Molly shakes her head and places it on the floor. “It’s just printer paper,” she says. “I only brought out here to talk to you. The custodians will put it back.” She smiles again. “Good luck.”

“Er, thanks,” John says, and means it. She turns and goes, and after a second, John clears his throat again and goes back into the lab. 

Sherlock has turned back to the microscope but he looks up when John comes in. 

“So,” John says, trying to rearrange his face and smile normally. “How much longer, do you think? I’m getting a bit hungry. Indian, do you think?”

Sherlock switches off the microscope. “I can finish this later,” he says, and removes the sample dish. John helps him put lids on them all and store them in the small fridge that Molly has set aside for his personal use. He pulls on his coat and leads the way out of the lab. If he notices the box of paper on the floor, he doesn’t remark upon it. 

***

The walk back to the flat is quiet and John thinks that they’re both thinking about what comes next. And that it also necessitates a certain conversation, one that he feels strangely awkward about bringing up. “So,” he says, when they’re about five minutes away. “Er, I was wondering…” He trails off and Sherlock just waits, patient for once in his life. “When you were imagining this… bloody hell. I don’t know how to put this.”

Sherlock nudges him with an elbow. “You’re blushing. It’s extremely endearing.”

“Oh, perfect,” John says, trying for sarcasm but he ends up smiling despite himself. 

“Just spit it out,” Sherlock advises. “What were you wondering? It’s not about the Woman again, is it?”

“No,” John assures him. “I just – well, when two blokes – obviously you know this, but if we’re going to try out, er, penetrative sex, I just wondered… er, which role you saw yourself in?” God, it sounds horribly awkward. “I’m open,” he adds, not wanting to mess this up _now_. But it does seem rather like this they should figure this out in advance. 

Sherlock looks at him and shrugs, hands in the pockets of his coat. “As am I. Do you have a preference?”

“No, I wanted to ask _you_ that,” John says. “I think you should be the one to choose.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, the crinkle at the bridge of his nose appearing. “Just because it will be my first time? It’s going to be yours, too, unless you’ve omitted something fairly significant.”

“Which I haven’t,” John says. 

“Or you’re counting related experiences with women,” Sherlock adds, definitely frowning now. 

“No,” John says. “I’ve never done that with anyone one, in, er, either role.”

Sherlock glances around, then takes his right hand out of his pocket, interlaces his fingers with John and puts both hands back in his pocket, which makes John laugh. It eases the slight tension nicely. They’re half a block from home now. “Then if it’s new for you, too, why should you accommodate me in this?” he asks. “It’s not logical.”

John can’t think of a way to counter this argument, so he just says, “Look, I don’t think we should settle this by flipping a coin. Surely you have _some_ preference.” 

They walk in silence as Sherlock ruminates. Then, when they’re in front of the door, he says, “And you don’t?” 

“Don’t start that,” John warns. “Or else we’ll just go around in circles all night. Come on.” He steps up close to Sherlock, unbuttoning his coat and stepping into its wings and looking up at Sherlock’s face. The pavement is relatively empty. “How have you imagined it?” he murmurs. “When you’re getting yourself off – have you thought about bending me over somewhere, your cock hard and driving into me from behind? Or is it the other way, with my cock filling you up, pushed up against a wall, or in your bed? Which way is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes pool with dark arousal. “Both,” he says, his voice and face both intense. “I want to do everything with you.”

“We can do everything,” John promises. “Just not all at once.” He suddenly wonders if Sherlock is holding out because he feels self-conscious about his choice or because he’s guessed what he thinks John prefers and doesn’t want to choose the same thing, or if he just doesn’t know. John decides to take a gambit. He takes Sherlock’s lapels and says, “Tonight, I think you should top. We’d both be doing something completely new that way, and I feel like you should know what it feels like to have your cock inside someone else.”

Sherlock’s heart rate increases visibly. He swallows, then manages a jerky nod. “All right,” he says, his voice rasping, and John thinks, _Bingo_. 

“Upstairs,” he says, and Sherlock nearly wrestles him through the door. They trip over each other all the way up the steps, removing clothing as they go. By the time they reach the sitting room, Sherlock has lost his coat and shoes and got his shirt unbuttoned. John’s shirt is at the top of the stairs (possibly), and he’s currently kicking off the second shoe. The trousers fall behind in the corridor outside Sherlock’s bedroom and they get stuck there for a minute, kissing and rubbing themselves together, Sherlock’s hips pressing John into the wall. He can feel the texture of the wallpaper on his back. John breaks it off only long enough to push Sherlock into the bedroom. “Take your shirt off,” he says, going to the drawer of the night table to get the lube. 

Sherlock looks down at himself. “It’s mostly off.”

“All the way off,” John orders. “I want to see you properly. Do you know that I’ve never actually seen you completely naked yet? Let’s fix _that_.”

Sherlock hesitates. “Of course you have,” he says. “We’ve slept naked the past two nights.”

“But it was dark and we were under the blankets,” John protests, scrambling onto the bed and leaning back on his elbows. “Come on. Let me see you.”

Sherlock slowly pulls off his shirt and drops it to the floor. He’s bloody _gorgeous_ , John thinks, his already-stiff prick hardening even further, standing straight up against his belly. He’d known; he’s seen Sherlock in various states of undress on many occasions, but never like this, with Sherlock standing there in front of him, arms pinned self-consciously to his sides, his cock plumped out and standing at attention in its wreath of sleek dark hair, and John literally feels his mouth water. 

“Come here,” he breathes, taking pity on Sherlock. “God, I can’t even tell you how badly I need to touch you. Come _here_.”

Sherlock crawls over the foot of the bed and lies down over John, and this is incredible, just feeling Sherlock against him this way. So far they’ve only been totally nude together after the fact, never before, and as they kiss they’re rubbing themselves together, writhing in what’s already exquisite amounts of pleasure. “I – read an article about – preparation,” Sherlock says, between kisses. 

John’s surprised laugh comes out as a huff of breath. “Of course you did.”

“Several, in fact,” Sherlock allows. “I do believe I know, at least in theory, what to do for you.”

“Okay,” John says. “Then show me.”

“Now?” Sherlock asks. “You’re – ready?”

“Ready to try, at least,” John says, aiming for cheerful. “I mean, if we don’t like it, or we do but it’s not our favourite thing, we can try something else the next time.” 

“Reassurances kill the mood,” Sherlock chides, taking the lube from John’s hand where he’s been clutching it this entire while. 

“Did you read that in one of the articles?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock smirks at him, suddenly appearing more confident, which John likes. “You’re sure you don’t mind trying it this way?” 

“Not at all,” John says. “Not to reassure you, but I’m looking forward to it.”

Sherlock smiles again, a real smile this time and uncaps the lube. 

“Hang on,” John says, suddenly nervous. “Let me just – freshen up. I’ll be right back.” Sherlock moves to let him go by, not saying anything to prevent him going and John shuts himself in the loo and starts running warm water. Truth be told, he should have done some reading. He knows, basically, how to prepare oneself for this, but – it’s been hours since his shower after Sherlock left for the lab and he just wants to be sure. _Really_ sure. Several minutes later he emerges, feeling significantly better about it, and gets back onto the bed. “Sorry,” he says, still feeling self-conscious. “I just – ”

Sherlock shakes his head at him, cutting off the inanities. “No need,” he says. “I quite understand.”

“Okay,” John says, and tries to relax. “So – how should we do this?”

He still sounds nervous, he realises. More so than Sherlock looks. That _is_ a turn-up, isn’t it. “Come here,” Sherlock says. They’re both sitting up as Sherlock kisses him and John feels himself relax into it as Sherlock bends over him and eases him down onto his back. Sherlock leaves his mouth and starts kissing his neck and chest, then the soft hairiness of his belly that refuses to harden no matter how much he cycles, and then he forgets about that because Sherlock is lipping at his cock and touching his balls and John makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan and Sherlock makes an approving noise that vibrates through him.. His mouth occupied, he puts the tube of lubricant into John’s hand and holds his hand palm upward. John gets the clue and squeezes some into his hand. His thighs are quivering around Sherlock’s head as Sherlock slowly slides his middle finger into John. 

It’s actually quite good, especially combined with Sherlock’s mouth around his cock, and John relaxes further, head dipping backwards. The finger slips in and out of him, brushing against his prostate and feeling better than it ought to. In fact – after a moment, John has to push at Sherlock’s head, saying his name sharply. “Stop!” he gasps. “It feels too good – I don’t want to come yet.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, smiling up at him. “Are you ready? Do you feel ready? It still feels quite tight to me.”

“Maybe – maybe do another finger, but – kiss me, instead,” John says, not specifying, but Sherlock understands. He gets an arm under John’s back, propping him up slightly and kisses him, his mouth strong and much surer than it sometimes is, breaching John with two fingers and the stretch is a bit uncomfortable, but after a minute it eases and the burgundy-warm pleasure comes flooding back, his cock lying stiffly against his stomach again. “Okay,” he breathes. “Now.”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock is watching him intently. 

“Yeah.” John kisses him again. “I want to have you in me. How should I – do you want me to turn over?”

Sherlock thinks this over for a moment, then nods. “Yes. Perhaps that – yes, like that,” he says, as John gets on all fours. He rubs a hand over John’s arse and says, shivering so palpably that John can feel it, “Do you have any idea how – you look _so_ – ”

“Yeah?” John asks, twisting his head back to look at him. 

“Incredible,” Sherlock says, using one of John’s standard words of praise back to him. “Extraordinary.” His hands are on John’s arse, his hips lined up, and then he's pushing into John, the first two inches of his cock already inside. He gasps. “God, John, I’m – inside you…”

“Keep going!” John pants. The pleasure and discomfort are warring but the notion of being joined to Sherlock like this, of being the first body that Sherlock has ever entered, has his hard-on raging quite nicely. He reaches under himself and gives it a tug, unable to wait. Sherlock drives slowly into him, breathing hard, and when John feels his body right up against his own, he knows that Sherlock is completely buried in him. He lowers his face to the sheets and Sherlock strokes his back. They’re both trembling. After a moment, Sherlock starts to move a little, experimentally, and the discomfort fades completely. When he starts thrusting in earnest, John is ready and nearly gagging for it. His fingers are clenching in the sheets and he knows he’s drooling, but the sensation of Sherlock’s cock on his prostate is more than his ability to speak can handle. Sherlock isn’t saying words either, except for John’s name, which he’s breathing like some sort of profane prayer as he steadily fucks John through the mattress. When it gets to be too much to even handle, John reaches back for one of Sherlock’s hands, puts it on his dick and holds it there as he thrusts into it in time with Sherlock’s movements, the orgasm building within him so tightly that he thinks he’ll probably explode when he comes. It happens a moment later, his back arching suddenly and then he comes so much that it’s nearly obscene (right, prostate orgasms, he recalls vaguely) and can’t stop fucking Sherlock’s large fist. And then Sherlock really lets go, coming completely undone and losing control, fucking John so hard that John’s cock squeezes out another shot or two, and when he comes it’s with his arms locked around John’s midsection, humping him like an animal, hot release spilling into him and Sherlock is still going, his body still gripped in the spasm of his orgasm, his breath gusting out of his throat is choked bursts. 

He collapses onto John’s back and John’s knees give out. Heedless of the wet spot on the sheets, they lie there, facedown, panting as they recover. John feels completely wrung out. He’s never had an orgasm so intense in his life and suddenly understands precisely why some blokes prefer being on the bottom. If Sherlock had absolutely forced the point, John might have admitted that he sees himself more as a top than a bottom, but if sex is like _this_ every time as a bottom, he’s in. 

After a bit, Sherlock pulls out of him with clear reluctance and his fingers trail through the come leaking out of John’s arse with it. “I put that in you,” he says, almost as though he can’t believe it. 

John gives a muffled chuckle, his face still mostly buried in a pillow. “You did,” he agrees. “I was there.”

Sherlock slides off him and puts himself on his side, turned to face John. John slides over and gets his arm around Sherlock’s back and they kiss and it feels like they’ve past some small threshold. John is somehow not worried any more that Sherlock will change his mind about sex, at least. “Was that all right?” Sherlock asks him. “It didn’t hurt?”

“It felt bloody amazing,” John says, meaning it completely. 

“I know you probably would have chosen it the other way around if I’d really made you choose,” Sherlock says, causing John to wonder again whether or not he can read minds. “I just wanted to try it this way.”

“I know,” John tells him, smiling. “That’s why I offered.”

“But you liked it?” 

“I loved it,” John says honestly. “If you want to do it that way every time, it wouldn’t be a hard sell. I mean that. That was the best sex I’ve had in my life. I’m not exaggerating.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock says, but he kisses him again anyway, looking pleased. After, he says, “But I want to do that, too. Next time, we’ll switch around. I want to do everything there is to do with you.”

John smiles at him, feeling the post-sex wave of sleepiness coming over him. He gets as close to Sherlock as he can, settling in, his fingers trailing over Sherlock’s back. Even as his mind begins fuzzing around the edges, though, he notices something. There are ridges under his fingers. It’s not bone – it’s in the skin. He opens his eyes, frowning. “What’s on your back?” he asks. 

Sherlock goes a bit still. “What do you mean?” The question is unconvincing; he knows what John is asking about. 

“Sherlock,” he says, still frowning. “On your back. What is this?”

“It’s – nothing,” Sherlock says briefly. “We don’t need to discuss it.”

This is as close as he’ll come to telling John to shut up, John thinks, at least as long as they’re still in this dizzying honeymoon-ish phase. “Please,” he says. “Let me see.” When Sherlock doesn’t move, he adds, “Come on. I’m going to see your bare back at some point, aren’t I?”

Sherlock sighs deeply and turns himself onto his front. The overhead light is still on, as neither of them ever turned it off, and John props himself up on an elbow to take a look. What he sees makes him draw his breath sharply. 

He was unprepared for this, the criss-crossing lines, the scar of a single puncture wound an inch wide, frighteningly close to a kidney. What looks like a burn mark toward his right shoulder blade. “My God,” he says, stunned. “Oh, my God.”

Sherlock stays quiet, not responding. His back is tense. 

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice shaking, “who did this to you?”

“Multiple people,” Sherlock says, his face turned away, staring at the opposite wall. “I was captured. Twice.”

“While you were away,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge this very obvious deduction. He clears his throat but it doesn’t help the tightness that’s built up there. “Where?” he asks. 

“John – ”

“Please,” John interrupts, loudly, hearing the edge of tears in his voice, more upset than he’s been since the night he discovered that Mary was the one who shot Sherlock in the heart. “Please tell me.”

“The Ukraine,” Sherlock says quietly. “Then Serbia.”

“You were tortured,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t deny it. “And they were going to send you back there. To Serbia. To the same situation?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” John says again. He bends forward, unable to stop himself, his forehead on Sherlock’s back, hands touching Sherlock’s damaged skin gently, because Sherlock is the most precious thing in all the world and he never even knew how close he came to losing him. Never knew what he went through out there, never bothered to ask, too caught up in his own righteous indignation over the grief he needn’t have suffered, only the grief was justified – just misplaced. He should have been grieving that Sherlock was out there alone, going through this alone, without John and his Sig to shoot enemies off his back, drag him out of the reach of a blast radius in time. To make sure that he ate and slept. And that he knew that he was loved. 

And on top of that, he realises, his hot tears dripping onto Sherlock’s back, he’s spent God knows how many hours now conducting some stupid experiment on the brains of dead people who had or hadn’t known love in an effort to prove his own to John, prove himself capable of it, when the proof is here, written all over his back in lines of pain and self-sacrifice and injustice. While John was off courting the world’s most wanted terrorist assassin-for-hire, Sherlock had been risking his life over and over and over again, not to prove himself clever, but to rid the world and themselves of Moriarty and the threat he posed – to both of them, but of course Sherlock had to have believed that John would always be used as collateral against himself. John had thought of it all as some big, stupid adventure that Sherlock hadn’t even thought to include him in, hadn’t thought him important enough to tell that he was still alive, but at the heart of it all, _this_ was what had been happening. He is weeping, weeping at the very thought that Sherlock went through all of that thinking that John would never love him back, that John didn’t even consider him a good enough friend that Sherlock could have taken being asked to be his best man for granted. Had watched John marry someone else, a marriage that was a literal and metaphorical shot in the heart for him. And that he still thinks, despite all of this, that he has to somehow prove his love for John in Bart’s bloody hospital, is so far beyond unacceptable that John doesn’t even know where to start. 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice soft and uncertain. “Don’t. Please.” He turns back onto his side, gently dislodging John and puts a hand on his face. “It’s all over now. Long over.”

“I’m such an idiot,” John says, his voice still wrecked. He wipes his eyes. “How did it take me so long to see, really _see_?”

Sherlock doesn’t say it, spares him the trademark line about seeing and not observing. Instead he says, “I’m not entirely following your thought process.”

John shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later,” he says. “I just – I’ve just had my eyes opened properly, that’s all.” He reaches for Sherlock’s face and cups his cheek, looking into those beautiful eyes and thinking about how very little he deserves this amazing person facing him. “I love you,” he says. “I love you more than I know how to tell you. And you will never need to say it back, because I _know_.”

Sherlock’s eyes study his intently. “Do you?” he asks. “Because the experiment with the brains – ”

John puts a finger on Sherlock’s lips. “I don’t need to see a scan of your brain for proof,” he says softly, his voice still not quite steady. “I know now.”

“I wanted to prove that I was capable of it,” Sherlock says, with a small, self-deprecating laugh. 

John shakes his head. “You already have, over and over and over again,” he says. “I don’t deserve it. Or you.”

“ _I_ don’t deserve _you_ ,” Sherlock counters. 

“This could get circular quite quickly,” John says. He gets both his arms around Sherlock and pulls him onto himself again, then pulls the far edge of the blankets over Sherlock’s back. They kiss for a long time, the need to talk receding into the night, and John feels closer to Sherlock than he’s ever felt to another person in the whole of his life, so close he feels that they must be almost physically bonded together in every place that they’re touching. And outside the world is still going on as it usually does, as if the most important thing in the history of humanity hasn’t just happened. 

John swears to himself, then and there, that he will never do anything to endanger it. Never again. Because Sherlock is _his_ now and he wants the world to know it. But as long as Sherlock knows it, that’s all that really matters. 

*

**Please read the warnings on the next part before reading it!**


End file.
